


True Colours

by Brightbear



Category: Three Musketeers (1993)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2005, recipient:Carmarthen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-25
Updated: 2005-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightbear/pseuds/Brightbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rochefort tries to discover Aramis' loyalties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Colours

**Author's Note:**

> Set about five or so years before the movie, when both Rochefort and D'Artagnan's father were serving as Musketeers.

Rochefort had never been one of the Cardinal's guards. He was the Comte de Rochefort and had a country estate but he had desired the violent lifestyle that no provincial estate could ever provide. He had once been one of the King's Musketeers but he could not resist the power the Cardinal had offered. Rochefort detested weakness and he could see it was in the current King as much as it had been in his father. It was ludicrous that such weakness had survived. Meanwhile, the absolute competence of the Cardinal was a solid rock both behind the scenes and behind the throne. The Cardinal was not a good man and Rochefort knew it. It did not bother him much because Rochefort was not a good man himself. The Cardinal offered him freedom to act on his violent desires and he pushed that freedom to it's limits. It was exhilarating.

Aside from the Cardinal, there were not many men that Rochefort respected. The trouble was that some inner recklessness drove Rochefort to challenge strong men. Rochefort had killed or defeated most men who _might_ have been able to earn his respect - an irony he was not unaware of. When it came to a political force like the Cardinal, Rochefort knew better than to attempt an open challenge. His refusal to wear the red of the Cardinal's guard was defiance enough. For a while, it was an interesting and challenging double-life as the Cardinal's spy within the King's Musketeers. Rochefort wore the colours of the Musketeers but refused to be tied to their loyalties. He was loyal to the Cardinal but refused to wear his colours, hiding his defiance behind the practical need for secrecy.

Rochefort found it difficult to respect many of the King's Musketeers. Some were all words and no action, while many others were all action with no forethought. All of them held fast to empty words which inspired them with an unpredictable passion. Furthermore, the Musketeers were unofficially encouraged to pick fights with the Cardinal's guards. Tavern brawls and street fights were all too common. Rochefort not only revelled in the violence but also in the chance to defy the Cardinal by slashing and cutting at the Cardinal's men.

Only one of the Musketeers seemed to carry his own purpose with him, not clinging to the phrase "All for one" like it was oxygen. Rochefort found himself shadowing the man, justifying it by telling the Cardinal that those Musketeers who made it their business to be more informed than their colleagues deserved Rochefort's close attention. It wasn't a lie, there was always a small core of Musketeers that the others looked to for guidance. Among them were Athos, Aramis and Porthos.

Porthos responded to simple challenges. Rochefort didn't have to watch Porthos in too many bar-brawls or taverns to recognise Porthos as the type to be dangerously loyal rather than an independent threat. Athos was more cunning with secrets held tight to his vest. Rochefort tried to solve the mystery but Athos side-stepped him with a grace that betrayed a noble upbringing as part of the landed gentry. When the call for the Musketeers went up, Athos raised his voice in total abandon and Rochefort knew that his loyalty to the cause was no less than that of Porthos'.

It was Aramis that was different. He was skilled with a blade and Rochefort watched him in fight after fight. His fighting style was about precision and clean lines. When it came to the cry of the Musketeers, however, Rochefort found it more difficult to judge. There was a dry cynical wit and a smug superiority which never quite cracked enough to reveal an all-encompassing devotion to the King's cause. It was clear Aramis valued his two closest friendships dearly but there was a part of him which was withdrawn from even their company. Athos respected the distance and Porthos seemed not to notice.

Rochefort waited patiently, wondering if Aramis' words of prayer would leave him open to being recruited into the Cardinal's service. The Cardinal himself had refused to let Rochefort attempt the recruitment and since the Cardinal had known Aramis longer, Rochefort respected that decision for now. If Aramis had so little loyalty to the Musketeers he already belonged to, he might not have much loyalty for any other cause he was recruited to.

The Cardinal began to move his plans into action and Rochefort played his parts to perfection. In order to gauge the Musketeer's responses and to distract the King with threats from outside the court, the Cardinal planned a small-scale breach of the Palace's defenses. The Cardinal fixed it for a night when Rochefort was on duty and, if Rochefort had been more of a religious man, he might have suspected the Cardinal of arranging the drenching rain as well.

* * *

Clouds hid the sickly moon, leaving only lantern light to illuminate the rain as it came down nearly vertical. At some angles, it seemed as if the eerie light emanated from within the sheets of rain rather than simply being reflected by it. The Musketeers stood at their posts, sheltering behind whatever cover they could find. The guards by the front gate could not be seen between the darkness and the weather. Athos and Porthos were patrolling the grounds and would pass by Rochefort's position every ten minutes. Whenever the two of them did, they would cease chattering good-naturedly to one another and holler greetings at Aramis.

Aramis was standing guard with Rochefort at one of the palace's side-entrances. Three other Musketeers accompanied them. Rochefort had already judged two of those Musketeers and decided that they weren't worth the risk it would take to try and convert them. The third, an older man by the name of D'Artagnan, would be a valuable asset but Rochefort hesitated in the recruitment. Something about D'Artagnan made Rochefort uneasy.

A lightning bolt illuminated the grounds, flashing off the rain and glinting off the metal tips of the palace gates. Aramis shifted his weight where he stood, the only sign that he'd also spotted the dark silhouette down by the gate. It was a silhouette that moved too furtively and guiltily for it to be one of the Musketeers. None of the King's Musketeers would ever move guiltily, even when they were in the wrong. They had too much pride and believed too much in their own righteousness.

"I don't believe anybody's patrolling down there," said Rochefort, trying to contain his delight at the prospect of violence. "It might require our attention."  
Aramis took several steps forward, unheeding of the rain as it streamed unceasingly from the brim of his hat. The feather in his hat had been reduced to a soggy mass under the weight of the water it had absorbed but Aramis seemed not to notice.  
"Patience, Rochefort," said Aramis calmly. "Violence comes to those who wait."

Aramis was as good as judging the characters of others as he was at concealing his own. That did not mean that Rochefort did not have his own card to play, however.  
"Should not Athos and Porthos have been past by now?" asked Rochefort, forcing his voice to be low and calm.  
Rochefort's voice rumbled a little more than intended, perhaps reflecting the tension that was vibrating inside him.  
"They keep their own time," said Aramis dismissively, but Rochefort watched the tell-tale twitch of the man's sword-hand.

A man like Aramis still had his weaknesses. The fact that he was standing in the rain with his back to his colleagues read to Rochefort like a man hiding his expression. Rochefort studied him under the pretense of watching the gate for more movement. Aramis' uniform had gone black with the weight of the rain but the material held it's shape neatly. Aramis himself held his body in taut readiness, none of his casual words able to hide the discipline he possessed. Rochefort took the few steps required to join the man in the rain.

The lightning flared again and two figures could clearly be seen making their way across the grounds and ducking under the relentless pressure of the falling rain.  
"There only seems to be two of them," admitted Aramis cautiously.  
"It may be a deception," said Rochefort. "To draw us away from our post at the door."  
"True," agreed Aramis. "In which case, it would be best if we remained."  
Rochefort resisted the urge to curl his lip in distaste at the possibility of not being able to get involved in the action - especially since he knew for a fact that the Cardinal had sent only two intruders. The way Aramis' eyes remained focused on the gate belied the other man's apparent satisfaction with watching and waiting.

"Three men should be sufficient to protect the door," suggested Rochefort. "You and I might venture forth as far as the gate, causing no great harm."  
Aramis looked to their Musketeer companions who stood beneath the shelter that an overhanging balcony provided. For a moment, Rochefort's heart beat a little faster in his chest as he was sure that Aramis was on the brink of asking one of them to accompany him. The thought of being left behind tormented him. Instead, Aramis hesitated and his eyes slid sideways to Rochefort. On sensing Rochefort's restlessness, the words on Aramis' lips were abruptly changed.

"Would you gentlemen be so good as to hold this position while Rochefort and I take a stroll down to the gate?" Aramis asked D'Artagnan pleasantly.  
"You're not wet enough up here?" frowned D'Artagnan, responding to Aramis' tone but not his words.  
"I feel the need to stretch my legs," said Aramis blandly.  
"And we might just have a conversation with those two fellows down there," added Rochefort casually.

D'Artagnan started and looked enviously down at the gate. He had clearly not noticed the intruders and Rochefort was perversely pleased with that. For a moment, D'Artagnan looked as eager as Rochefort felt but then he carefully concealed it again. He nodded reluctantly, conceding the chance of action to the men who had rightfully found it. If their positions were reversed, Rochefort doubted that he would ever be that gracious and knew without asking that Aramis would.

Rochefort nodded to Aramis to signal his readiness and consent to let the other man lead. If Aramis found Rochefort's passivity unusual, he said nothing on it. On Rochefort's part, it was not because his desire for violence had lessened but because he was interested in watching the way Aramis moved under true pressure. He'd watched Aramis in bar-brawls but this was for the King's service.

Aramis did not disappoint, moving swiftly and gracefully across the grounds. Rochefort followed with his hand on his own sword-hilt. They reached the a small tree-lined avenue that ran smoothly down to meet the gate. Rochefort felt his boots crunching the gravel, even as the rain drowned out the sound of it. The rain lessened in intensity as they ran but it continued to fall as if would not stop before morning dispelled it.

Two small figures crouched beneath the dubious protection of the last tree in the avenue. Their heads were bent together in consultation and as the rain let up, their words carried.  
"Getting in was just as easy as we were told it would be," said one, with all the giddiness of a schoolboy. "My heart is fit to burst through my chest."  
"If it does, I'll thank you to remember that I cannot carry your weight home again," the other whispered back harshly.  
The first intruder chuckled, unheeding of his companion's bad mood. The second growled at being laughed at and tugged at the brim of his hat.

The second intruder spotted Aramis coming towards him and froze, his hands still upon his hat.  
"Well, we only wanted to see if we could get in and we've done that..." chuckled the first.  
Then he noticed that his companion had frozen and he too turned to see both Aramis and Rochefort advancing up the avenue. The first intruder immediately sprang into action, taking off from a half-crouch into a full fledged sprint in the direction of the palace gates. The second remained frozen in shock, watching the two Musketeers approach with wide-staring eyes.

With their uniforms, there was no need for the Musketeers to identify themselves but Aramis tried anyway. He barely had the words on his lips, however, before the intruder came back to himself and went for his sword. He drew it clumsily, his short-comings made all the more obvious by Aramis following suit gracefully. The force of Aramis' first swing nearly knocked the sword from his opponent's hand. This close, Rochefort could see that the intruder could not be more than twenty or so years of age. He held his sword in a trained grip but there was no experience in his movements. In terms of technique, there was nothing to separate the two but Aramis had a decade of active service experience which in this case made all the difference.

Normally, a few precise touches of the blade and Aramis would have disarmed his opponent. This was not to be the case, however, as the first intruder came hurtling back through the rain. His approach stole Aramis' attention long enough for the second to correct his sword-grip and gather himself to put up a decent fight. Rochefort eagerly intercepted the first before he could reach Aramis and do more than divide his attention.

Rochefort's opponent checked in mid-stride, clearly not having noticed Rochefort before now. He twisted to avoid Rochefort's first blow and countered with a fierce stab which Rochefort deflected easily. This intruder was even younger than the one Aramis faced and looked to be no more than fifteen years of age. He also showed signs of being well-trained and inexperienced but he had a fiery temperament and fast reflexes which made him more dangerous. Experience was still Rochefort's best defense but no longer in terms of blade-work. It was in his feet that Rochefort controlled the fight, shifting his weight faster and more easily than the boy he was facing. The boy knew the motions but had a tendency to lock his feet in place, leaving him immobile and more predictable.

Behind Rochefort's back, Aramis disarmed the older boy with a casual flick of the wrist which sent the boy's sword flying in Rochefort's direction. Rochefort ducked to avoid the flying weapon, overbalancing with both of his legs stretched out on opposite sides of his body. He locked his knees to keep his balance, leaving himself a stationary target for the younger boy.

With Aramis and the older boy behind his back, Rochefort had no clue as to what happened between them next. However, the younger boy in front of him took immediate advantage of Rochefort's weakness and seized the offensive. The boy advanced, swinging with both hands and sweeping Rochefort's hat from his head. The rain struck his unprotected face with surprising force but then he was scrambling backwards with no time for thinking of the rain.

Rochefort managed a quick parry, forcing the boy to step back through brute force. That was all the time he needed to straighten back to his full height. Regaining his balance returned his advantage and, from the despairing look in the boy's eyes, he knew it too. Rochefort closed the distance between them, seizing the boy's sword handle with his left hand. He felt the trembling of the boy's fingers trapped between the sword-hilt and Rochefort's hand for only a moment before Rochefort ran him through.

The trembling in the fingers stopped as shock overtook fear. Young, blue eyes looked at Rochefort in a way he might almost have described as mild reproach. It was as if the boy were demanding some kind of emotional acknowledgment from Rochefort. Rochefort found that a strange thing to expect of someone who'd just killed you. Then Rochefort withdrew his sword, feeling bone and gristle slide against the edge of the blade before it was free of the body. The rain washed the blood from the sword almost instantly, as if it had never been used. The young boy teetered on his feet for a moment before falling face-first to the grace beneath one of the trees in the avenue.

A despairing cry reminded Rochefort that he was not alone with his violence. He turned to see the older boy on his knees in the gravel of the avenue, ignoring the way the gravel must have been digging into his flesh. His hands were outstretched hopelessly towards the fallen body. Aramis stood tightly, his sword keeping his prisoner at bay. Aramis' free hand was resting on the boy's shoulder as if to give comfort. Rochefort guessed that this was the first time the boy had seen death but it had been too long for Rochefort to remember what that felt like. He had been told by the Cardinal that the intruders were expendable as well as clueless as to whose orders they were following.

"They're very young," said Aramis, sounding vaguely disapproving.  
Rochefort focused his attention back on the other Musketeer, wondering how Aramis could be so calm so soon after a fight. A small part of Rochefort wondered if Aramis would be that calm after sex.  
"We could have asked them to surrender," said Rochefort, forcing his voice to a measured calm that he didn't feel yet. "But they trespassed on the King's estate and drew weapons against the King's Musketeers. There are consequences for such things."  
"Death is a rather harsh consequence," said Aramis but there was more resignation than anger in his voice.

Rochefort frowned at Aramis, still blinking at the change from disapproval to resignation in so short a space of time. Aramis removed his hand from the older boy's shoulder and approached the body. He knelt and fumbled with wet fingers for the cross around his neck. The movement seemed almost clumsy and that drew Rochefort's attention. He wondered what emotion could make Aramis graceful when killing but clumsy when dealing with a body someone else had killed. As Aramis began his prayer, the older boy bowed his head and clasped trembling fingers together. His mouth moved silently in echo to Aramis' words.

Now that the fight was finished, Rochefort was aware that he was wet and tired. Without his hat, the rain trickled down the back of his clothes in a way it hadn't before. He cast his eyes across the grounds, looking for the place his hat had fallen. A shout from the distance heralded the approach of Athos and Porthos. Still hatless, Rochefort turned to watch them jogging through the rain. A thunder clap silenced the voices of the two men praying not three feet from him.

Rochefort just managed to make out the whispered words, "...strength to avenge my brother."  
Then Rochefort was turning to face the body, his hand on his sword-hilt. Ironically, his left foot finally found his hat and he lost his balance for the second time that night. This time he had no drawn weapon to defend himself as the older boy drew a dagger from his clothes and lunged. Rochefort's arm took the brunt of the lunge aimed at his chest, the sheer force of the boy's leap throwing both of them to the ground.

The boy threw his full weight on Rochefort's sword-arm, trapping the sheathed sword between their bodies. With the other hand, the boy pulled the dagger back for a second blow at Rochefort's unprotected face. The boy's all-too-adult yell of fury turned into a scream as Aramis ran him through from behind. Rochefort locked eyes with Aramis, recognizing a reckless exhilaration that he could fully understand. The boy slumped sideways and Rochefort pushed him the rest of the way off with his good arm.

Rochefort watched in fascination as the shutters came down again on Aramis' emotions. Then Athos and Porthos were at his side, helping Rochefort to his feet. Rochefort tolerated the touch of Athos' wet fingers as his wound was tended but all his attention was riveted on Aramis as he knelt to begin a second set of prayers for the night. He resisted Porthos' encouragement to return to the guard post where both a fire and a doctor awaited. It was only when Aramis had finished and looked up that Rochefort allowed himself to be persuaded. Aramis almost looked grateful that Rochefort had waited.

Patience was never one of Rochefort's virtues. Aramis had decided to stay close, telling Athos that he felt responsible for the wound and would take responsibility for seeing Rochefort back to his lodgings. The quick glance of suspicion and disbelief that Athos responded with was oddly heartening to Rochefort. It meant that Athos suspected Aramis of having ulterior motives and Rochefort was intensely interested in knowing everything he could about Aramis' motives. The two of them said little on the journey back to Rochefort's apartments. Aramis settled Rochefort in a chair by the fire, Rochefort helping just a little less than he was able.

Rochefort felt an anticipation settle in his gut that usually signaled violence was to come. Aramis finally finished every task that might ease Rochefort's rest and delay his departure. Aramis then stood in the middle of the floor, looking at the other Musketeer and maintaining a calm expression.  
Finally, Aramis smiled wryly at him, "That was a serious wound. I hope the blood loss is not too bad."  
"I've had worse," said Rochefort negligently. "It's a cold night. Why don't you come sit by me?"

If Aramis took the invitation at anything other than face-value, he gave no sign. He gracefully occupied the seat opposite Rochefort as the other man tried to keep his hunger from his face. It didn't matter since Aramis stared into the fire distractedly, as if gathering his courage.  
"I must offer you my apologies," said Aramis. "I should have checked that the boy was not armed. I did not intend for you to get hurt."  
"Yes," said Rochefort gravely, not quite sure what question he was answering. "You seemed quite angry."

Aramis sighed and seemed to fold in on himself, "Not always controlling myself is one of my worst faults."  
Rochefort chuckled lightly which brought Aramis' head up sharply.  
"And mine," said Rochefort. "Is being unrepentant about not controlling myself."  
The other Musketeer sighed, "Sometimes I envy that."  
Rochefort felt his pulse quicken, understanding a little bit more about his companion and yet being even further baffled by the strength it took to conceal the real man.

"You are a dangerous man," said Aramis. "And you don't hide it."  
"Do you always hide?" asked Rochefort, leaning forward intently.  
"I try not to be dangerous to those who don't deserve it," said Aramis, sliding forward to the edge of his chair so that their knees were touching.  
"But you are dangerous," Rochefort finished the thought. "And angry."  
"I try to control my desire for violence," said Aramis, his pupils dilated. "I don't always understand myself."  
Aramis slid out of his seat, pinning Rochefort to the back of his chair by his shoulders. Rochefort tried to pretend that this was not a challenge he'd desired for a long time.

"Is that all you want to control?" said Rochefort, breathlessly.  
"No," said Aramis, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I want to control you."  
"Through violence?" asked Rochefort, shifting his injured arm out the way and pulling Aramis closer with the other.  
"By any means possible," whispered Aramis, pressing his lips to Rochefort's.

As the heat of the fire chased the rain from their clothing and sex soaked up their adrenaline, Rochefort was irritated to realize he still didn't know what colours he should be wearing. He was disturbed to find that he didn't care.

THE END

  



End file.
